A Very Dean Winchester Dirty Movie Marathon
by bittersauce
Summary: Set after 5.04 Sequel to "It's The Great Gay Cruise Sam Winchester." The boys have to deal with the circus, airplane rides, bellyaches, crying angels, crazy stalkers and of course - the Apocolypse.
1. Chapter 1: yellow snow angels

**one**.

- - -

"This doesn't feel right."

"That's because you're not aiming." Dean Winchester leaned against a brick wall, smothered in colorful graffiti prints of everything ranging from butterflies to gang signs. A thick snow had fallen the night, blanketing the earth with its crystallized perfection. "If you just piss on the melted part, you'll lose the whole letter. Besides, you kinda' gotta curve that last part. You know, if you want it to look right."

Castiel's shoes crunched against the ice below the frost. As part of his abysmal descent into humanity, Dean had for some reason taken it upon himself to teach him all the things any classy young man growing up in the world should know – such as how to barter for the cheapest porn (something the angel always returned with burning red cheeks after the hunter had turned his back; attention detained by the bevy of bare chests), how to ogle an attractive passerby without drawing attention to oneself, how to sneak a six pack of beer out from under your jacket without the cashier noticing, and the current lesson of the day: how to scrawl your name in the snow – _the old fashioned way_.

Lucifer was free, vying for Sammy's body – plotting the eventual downfall of the entire human species and _Dean?_ Well, Dean was teaching an angel to piss with style.

"I don't want to do this anymore," the angel muttered stubbornly, zipping up his trousers quickly. Just because Dean felt the need to teach, doesn't mean he had to listen. "It's unclean."

"Cass," Dean bemoaned with a faltering grin. "Don't be like that. It's fun – _c'mon_, see I'll show you." Hands reaching for the front of his own pants, Castiel immediately lifted a hand into the air.

"Another time, perhaps."

"Fine," Dean grumbled. "It's like you were freakin' born without a fun gland, man. _It's not right_ – not right at all."

Castiel appeared to have ignored this remark, as he remained staring up at the moon – head tilted ever so slightly with his pale lips open in a gentle part. "Has Sam mentioned any new information?"

Dean shook his head. "Not yet. But don't worry, Cass. We'll find it."

Of course by _it_, he meant the angel's Grace – lost months ago at sea. They'd spent quite a bit of time hunting it down, that is when they weren't doing their best to prevent the apocalypse. Rumors had started flying around that the other angels had found it – just lying there amongst the rocks of some underwater cave and that they were now hoarding it amongst one another, simply bouncing it around.

It was their idea of punishment. Dean still _hadn't _said yes. Michael needed him to save the world and he had flat out refused.

Castiel shuffled his feet obstinately. "I feel that _thing_ again," he noted hesitantly.

"Just tuck it under your boxers and get on with your day," Dean commented nonchalantly, kicking at a derelict trash can already on its side. "Try thinking about baseball – that always works for me, plus you don't have the problem of getting caught with your hands in your pants - you know? Doesn't really impress the chicks all that much."

"How would _baseball_ help my eyes stay open?" Castiel seemed thoroughly confused, swaying a bit where he stood as his voice remained peculiarly grave. Fingertips scratched at the light stubble against his chin as his mouth spread into an exhausted yawn. Appearing to be startled by his body's sudden movement, he jumped backwards – as if to escape himself in the event that some form of demonic possession was taking place.

Dean grinned. "Oh, you meant _that_ kind of feeling."

"Of course – what were _you_ talking about?"

Shaking his head, Dean shoved his hands in his pockets – stifling the laughter he was sure was about to burst through his chest. "Let's just say one that's much, _much_ more fun."

"Hungry?

"You got the first letter right, I'll say that much." Castiel continued to stare blankly ahead, as he often did when things were beyond his understanding. Dean heaved a grandeur sigh. "_Tired_, Cass. You're tired. How the _hell_ can you not remember – we've only gone over this about a _thousand_ times with you."

"So I should think of baseball," Castiel surmised slowly.

Dean shook his head, pinching the bridge of his nose and brow. "No, _damnit_ Cass. That's for when you get a - well not for _this_," he corrected quickly, deciding that despite the fact that he enjoyed introducing the angel to the finer sides of humanity so far – he wasn't _quite_ ready to have _this _talk. And if he was lucky, it would never come up again. "You need _sleep_," he added roughly. "You know - the thing Sam and I force you to do every night."

"You mean lay there and stare at the ceiling until the sun comes up."

"_Jesus Christ_, no wonder you're so _goddamn_ tired." Castiel glared. Dean held up a finger. "And don't go all judgmental on me you wingless _sunnovabitch_ – you find God, we'll talk. Until then I'll take his name in vain as much as I _freakin'_ please, all right."

"He is your _Father_."

"Well I've got enough daddy issues to send me straight into a lifetime career of stripping, not really looking to take on more – so I'll say it again, _back off_." Glancing over his shoulder at the dimly lit motel in the distance, he sighed. "Look, forget it. Sam's probably starting to get worried anyway. Let's just go back and get you to bed – _okay_?"

"I am not a _child_," Castiel mumbled beneath his breath, frowning as he kicked at a melting pile of ice.

"Yeah, well I am rubber, you are glue. If you don't get your damn ass back in that room kid, I'm gonna' kick it there _for_ you."

Castiel stared. "That seems," he paused. "_Different_."

"Yeah well," Dean said with a hardened smile. "Not if you'd had _my_ childhood. And that's one of the nicer ones." Brushing his hand against the frozen brick wall, just to feel the chill – he met the angel's gaze slyly. "_Told you_ I had daddy issues."

* * *

I have a migraine from the heat so I'm sorry this isn't the best beginning. Thanks for everyone who read _It's The Great Gay Cruise Sam Winchester_. I hope you like this one too! PS, I watched _The End_. I definitely teared up for most of it. What did you guys think?


	2. Chapter 2: the oprah disease

****

two.

- - -

"Are you watching _Oprah_?" Sam Winchester's broad neck craned upwards and to the left, catching his sibling's shocked gaze as he grasped the motel television's remote controller tightly within his hands. A sheepish red hue crept along his cheekbones as he quickly pressed his thumb against the largest of buttons – the television snapping off with a whirr of static.

"Everything else was commercials," Sam fibbed – as if it made it any less worse, still clutching the controller with somewhat sweaty fingers now. He was belly down atop the hard mattress, and his shaggy brown hair practically covered his face entirely.

"I know we spent some time apart the past few weeks," Dean started with a wary glance as he shouldered the thick green coat he had snatched from a demon the other week, off onto the carpeted floor. Well, it was as close to carpet as could be despite the fact that most of it was clumped into sticky sections – although sticky from _what_, well he just didn't want to know."I just didn't realize it was enough time for you to finally come out of the closet."

"Right, Dean. Because watching _Oprah_ makes you gay." Sam's pupils rolled. He tossed the controller aside, groaning stiffly as he rose into a seated position.

"It makes you a _chick_ is what it does."

"_Great_," Sam muttered with frosty malcontent.

"Not my fault you chose the dark path that is daytime scheduling, Sammy." Dean shook his head firmly. "And you know what happens next, right?"

Sam sighed, brushing a few fingers through his tangled mane. "_What_," he sniped curtly, not even bothering to pose it as a question – almost as if to prove just how little he cared.

Dean pursed his lips, reaching towards the countertop where a few nearly empty beer bottles were scattered about. Grabbing the one closest to his grasp, he held it against his mouth before drawing a long swig of the alcoholic beverage. "You grow boobs, Sammy. Big, _beautiful_ boobs."

"Well, I just can't wait to see _that_ happen," Sam noted sarcastically.

"Me neither," Dean finished with a boyish grin. "It'll be a lot more fun having you around if you're, - well, _a lot more fun_ to look at."

"If I wake up in the middle and you're so much as _looking_ at me the wrong way," Sam threatened, protecting his chest with his hands instinctively.

"Right, like it'll be _my_ fault you've sprouted a pair of sweater yams. I _warned_ you, Sammy. I warned you about those talk shows," Dean insisted casually, finishing the last remaining drops of liquid with a tilt of his head, the bottle draining down his throat.

"I will kill you, Dean."

"Sammy," Dean said with utmost seriousness. "You'll be _far_ too weighted down by those balloons on your chest to so much as get a slap on the face in."

Sam opened his mouth to speak, an angry response visibly on the tip of his tongue – yet a loud, thumping knock against the motel door cut him off.

Dean eyed his brother suspiciously. _No one_ knew where they were. Not even Bobby. It had to be that way. The angels were on constant look out, even enlisting the help of the homeless and obsessive worshipers to keep their eyes peeled.

"_Who's there_?" Sam called out, speedily reaching around his brother to turn one of the pillows over. One of the first things Dean had taught him about hunting – _always_ be prepared. Drawing a tiny pistol out from underneath the lacy fabric, he held it behind his back.

"_Sam? Dean_?"

Again the brothers exchanged a curious look. "_Chuck_?" Dean called out hesitantly. With a snap of his knees, he stood, sauntering carefully towards the doorway. Inhaling heavily, holding the air still in the pit of his lungs – he turned the knob.

The door swung open to reveal a _very_, unfamiliar face. A man in his late twenties stood, practically bursting at the seams with excitement as he caught sight of both hunters' faces.

"I was _right!_" he exclaimed gleefully, hands rubbing against one another. "Wait until my wife hears about this. I mean of all the places." The man was talking so fast, Dean had to pause.

Leaning in towards the jubilant guest with ears pricked, he waited. "Do I – _we_," he motioned towards Sam who still sat motionless upon the bed. "Know you?"

"It's me, Harold." The man said it as though it should've explained everything. Reciprocated only with a few minutes of silence he sighed. "The _cruise_." Still no recognition. "About a few months ago," he pried, fingertips rolling as he spoke. "You and your husband were the hit of the party."

This seemed to confound Sam as at last he lifted is head, brows arched. "We _were_?"

"Oh yeah, _totally_." Harold's head bobbed up and down vigorously.

"But we barely talked to _anybody_," Dean conjectured. "I honestly don't think I know a _single_ person from that damn ship."

"Yeah well _everybody _knew _you_ guys."

"How's that?"

Harold stared blankly. "You guys were King and Queen at the last dance. Or more like _Queen and Queen_," he said with a low snicker before cringing. "Sorry, I didn't mean for that to be in bad taste. It's just – you know, you guys were a hit!" Again both hunters stared. "Don't tell me," Harold said with exasperation. "You didn't even go to the dance?"

"We're not really the dancing kind," Dean said through grit teeth.

"I wondered why I never saw you guys that night," Harold mused, slapping his leg almost like a cartoon character. "Makes perfect sense now. Oh," he warbled with happy eyes. "I've just got to tell Millie. She thought you two were an absolutely _adorable_ pair. You two were the only gays on the ship, you know."

"Listen, you tell that wife of yours that we are _not - _," Dean started to snarl. Sam immediately interjected, shooting his brother a knowing look. Despite the fact that the cruise was done, there was still no need to blow their cover. After all, it might raise some questions as to why they were there in the first place.

"How did you know we were here, Harold?" Sam questioned loudly, his eyes remaining fixated upon Dean.

"Saw you through the window," Harold said plainly, pointing to the large glass panes. Sam groaned inwardly. He'd shut the curtains hours ago, yet somehow now they were wide open – flapping in the breeze of the radiator's heat. "And I just knew it had to be you."

"Great catching up, Heathrow." Dean clapped the young man on the back. "But we've gotta' be getting back to – _to_ whatever it is happily married couples do." _Wasn't he supposed to be done with this? _Spending a few weeks as his brother's supposed _love monkey_ was bad enough – now it was just plain insane.

"Harold," the man corrected, never missing a beat. He paused, squinting into the tiny motel room. "Who's that?" Pointing into the distance, he gesticulated towards the lump upon the carpet beside the bathroom door – a lump that appeared to be breathing.

"Our pet gerbil," Dean muttered nonchalantly, suppressing a grin. Castiel had passed out after their little experiment with the snow outside and neither Dean nor Sam had possessed the heart to move him. So he'd have a little rug-burn on his face. It was nothing he couldn't handle – a rite of passage even. Dean couldn't count how many mornings he'd woken up with the pattern of the floor upon his cheek because Sammy had kicked him out of the bed.

"He's so big," Harold noted.

"Yeah well we like to feed him steroids. It's cheaper than kibble."

Noticing the long trench coat, Harold frowned. "Looks more like a _hooker_ to me."

"Sammy, how _could _you?" In a flash, Dean whirled around – his face accusing. "You told me you brought him here out of the kindness of your heart!"

Catching on, Sam protested heartily. "I _did_."

"More like - out of the kindness of your _pants_."

"Dean, that makes no sense."

"No, what doesn't make sense is why you brought a _whore_ into our home," Dean shrieked, knocking his fist against the standing lamp for good measure. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Harold slinking backwards. His plan was working.

"It's a motel room, Dean. We don't _have_ a home."

"Well maybe we would if you'd learn how to hold down a job every now and then," Dean shouted, stomping his feet brutally. The noise seemed to wake Castiel who in turn peered blearily around the room before settling his head back down upon the crusted floor – coiling his thighs against his sternum, his chalky eyes fluttering shut after a few moments as though he had deduced the situation wasn't dangerous enough to warrant his full awakening.

"Maybe if someone wasn't so needy, I'd have the time!"

"Well maybe if you paid more attention to me I wouldn't _have_ to be so needy. I mean we haven't even _touched_ in – what, two weeks?" Dean never in a million years would have admitted it, but he was having _fun_. It had been hell on the cruise, having to pretend to be his brother's lover. But now – now there was something innately amusing about it all. "It couldn't hurt to show me some affection now and then."

"You ungrateful _sunnovabitch_, I show you _plenty _of affection," Sam roared angrily, before his lungs collapsed into a breaking chorus of laughter. Harold had obviously fled in fear as his footsteps could still be heard sprinting down the long corridor of rooms.

Kicking the door shut behind him, Dean grinned with a shake of his head. "We still got it, Sammy." Sam was too busy doubling over, guffawing over the whole scene to reply. Yanking the curtains closed, Dean shot a final glance out into the darkness – satisfied that their unwelcome guest had at last left the premises altogether. "_We still freakin' got it_."

* * *

**Please review and let me know what you think!**


	3. Chapter 3: i do not like ham sam i am

**three**.

- - -

The neon letters of the diner's overhead sign were practically out, barely fizzling through the morning fog that covered the surrounding area in thick, dense patches.

"Ham and cheese omelet," Sam said, pointing to the large text against the glossy menu – which by itself was only about three pages long. There were two items for breakfast, four for lunch and dinner, and the rest were desserts and beverages.

"The upscale dining of grease and pig feet - class _all_ the way," Dean muttered with a low whistle as he scanned the meager options, the corner of his upper lip curling.

"_I beg your pardon_?" The waitress, a gangly teenager with an expression so surly, it was impossible to look her straight in the eye – questioned.

"I said I'll have the soufflé," Dean quickly corrected, swiftly kicking his brother's leg beneath the table as Sam let out a loud cough.

"There's no damn soufflé on the menu you stupid _sunnovabitch_," the waitress snapped, reaching over to unfold the shiny parchment. "You can have an omelet like your girlfriend over here," she said crassly, jerking her thumb towards Sam. "Or you can have the pancakes with the fruit of your choice."

"Fine," Dean muttered with tightly knit brows, snatching the menu back towards his chest. "I'll have the same thing as _my girlfriend_," he mimicked, wrapping his fingertips in air quotations as he shot the waitress a fervent scowl.

"Yo' _Gloomy Gus_, you want anything?" The waitress glared behind Dean where Castiel sat, eyes focused upon the reflective nature of the table's countertop.

"He's fine," Dean assured through gnashed teeth. It wasn't so much the fact that her voice was like nails on a chalkboard, or even that she had the _worst _attitude of pretty much anyone he had ever met – this girl was just so damn stupid it was nearly _unbearable_. Almost instinctively, his hands flew to the angel's back – giving it a pacifying pat before returning his attention towards the churlish young woman who had clearly already lost interest and had stomped away without so much as another word.

Sam slumped against the hard plastic of the booth.

"_Sammy_?" Dean stared at his younger brother with concern.

Sam sighed delicately, mouth set in a crooked frown as he twirled the stained silverware between his thumb and forefinger.

"Why does everyone always think we're gay?"

A large grin cracked the split pink skin of his lips as Dean fought the urge to laugh out loud. "I think you mean – why does everyone always think you're the _chick_?"

"I know, but dude its _uncanny_," Sam noted, straightening up with wide eyes. "I mean _every_ time."

"What can I say," Dean said with a shrug. "I told you yesterday those talk shows aren't doin' you any favors, man."

"Yeah but you think just once somebody would think it was you. I mean, it seems more obvious doesn't it?"

Dean's brow arched. "And just what the hell is that supposed to mean?"

Sam recoiled. "_Nothing_," he stammered. "I mean I guess, it's just – you're so much shorter than me, you know?"

"Yeah but I don't whine like a little bitch whenever I don't get my way," Dean retaliated. "Stuff like that earns you major chick points."

"You have really long eyelashes too," Sam pointed out. "I mean, even for a girl they're long." Dean shifted uncomfortably.

"Yeah well at least I've never been caught playing with lipstick."

"For the last time," Sam was practically growling now. "Brian Juny _punched_ me in the face – it wasn't makeup, it was a bloody lip."

"_Right_," Dean smirked with a knowing glance. "A bloody lip that just _happened_ to be spread perfectly all over your mouth without a single damn smudge. Yeah," he finished with a curt nod. "That sounds about normal to me."

"Stranger things have happened."

"Yes, but I can't torment you for them. _This_, however, is fair game."

"Here you go, fat heads." The waitress had returned, as had her scowl. She tossed the plates to their respective owners, not even bothering to make eye contact before disappearing quickly back behind the kitchen doors.

"I like her," Dean said sardonically through a mouthful of what could only be described as undercooked pancake batter, already having shoveled a large forkful against his tongue.

"_Yeah_?" Sam's brow quirked as he eyed his own plate warily. Whatever it was, it didn't even look remotely close to an omelet. The top layer was black and reeked of smoke. "I'm not surprised," he noted as he extended his finger, prodding at the burnt object. It felt hard and lumpy. "She reminds me of you."

"Dude, just eat it."

"I don't even know what _it_ is," Sam sniffed at the horrible concoction. "Forget it," he said at last with determination, sliding the plate away. "I'll just pick something up later."

"Fine, whatever."

"_Oh_," Sam exclaimed suddenly, his hands slapping against the surface of the table – rocking Castiel out of his dazed stupor. "We should stop at that sandwich place – the fast food chain. I saw a commercial the other night. Apparently they've got this new meal with half the calories and twice the meat."

"The end of the world is coming and you're clipping coupons for a few pieces of lousy overpriced bread and lettuce," Dean muttered with a roll of his eyes.

"_And _ham," Castiel interjected. "Sam insisted I watch with him," he added quite quickly as though terrified of the wrath that would follow.

Ignoring the angel, Dean shot his brother a withering glower. "_What_?" Sam questioned, shoulders rising lightly as he brushed the dark strands of his hair away from his face, a winning smile protruding from his thinly spread lips. "I _like_ ham."

"_Yeah_, you're right Sammy," Dean grunted, shaking his head to himself with an unbelieving stare. "I _totally_ can't imagine why anyone thinks _you're_ the chick."


	4. Chapter 4: the circus is in town

**four**.

- - -

"Bobby, tell me we got _something_." Dean frowned, tapping at the miniature electronic device in his grasp. The cell phone's ear piece crackled against the side of his face, static rushing by like a blustery gale.

"Oh, I _got_ something." Bobby sounded wary, though it could've just been the poor connection. Voices from nearby phone calls flitted in and out – a lovers' spat, two men yelling at each other, and even an old lady who appeared to be carrying on a conversation with her cat. "But you boys _ain't_ gonna' like it."

"Whatever it is, it's _gotta'_ be better than what we've got now." Dean cast a sideways glance, the folds of his eyes narrowing.

"_Dean_?" Sam called out quietly, hesitating. He sat with both legs beneath his thick frame, a bizarre sort of sheen coating his epidermis. "He's doing it again."

"_Sunnovabitch_," Dean cursed loudly against the tiny holes of the speaker, a blur of air escaping from between his lips.

"What's going on?"

"Our stupid little Holy roller has decided he's that creepy kid from the _Sixth Sense_, is what's going on," Dean muttered without so much as an ounce of compassion. "Keeps thinking he's seeing fish-chick. Sam's already caught him _twice_ with his head under water on the verge of drowning because he claims she can _hear him better that way_," he mimicked, fingers curving in quotations despite the fact that Bobby could not see him do so.

"Well what in the _heck_ are you doing on the phone with me if he's off pretending he's got gills?" Bobby shouted. "Drag that son of a bitch out of the bathtub and wise 'em up to the real world. People _die_. We get over it." Dean could hear a scoff of indignation on the other end of the line. "We sure as hell don't go pretending we're Aquaman, that's for sure."

"No offense Bobby, but I'm pretty sure Cass doesn't even know who that is."

"Fine, Superman – _whatever_. The point is, without his Grace he's almost just as human as you and me kid and he _knows_ it. That don't given him any right sticking his face in sinks and telling you he saw Jesus."

"Yes, because _Jesus_ was a freaking _mermaid_."

"You know what I mean."

Dean heaved a grand sigh. " – _you said you had a lead_?"

He could hear Bobby grumbling over the swift change in subject, but he continued nevertheless. "Yeah, I got wind of some chatter from some hunters up North. Apparently there's been an angel running around bragging about how they're bouncing your little pal's Grace around." Silence followed.

"_Well_," Dean demanded impatiently. "Where is it – because, I'm not gonna' lie, Bobby. If I have to take one more week of this _pukey-tearful _Cass crap, I'm gonna' find a way to end the apocalypse myself just so I can start it _all_ over again. It's that bad – you just don't even understand."

Bobby paused. "I _told_ you you're not gonna' like it, kid."

"Just spit it out already." He could hear Castiel beginning to retch in the background, followed by Sam's heavy footsteps – clomping after him with concern. "Seriously. _Apocolypse 2.0_, Bobby. _Think about it_."

"_Fine_," Bobby said with curt defeat. "_The Brothers Elmont._"

"Well what the hell is _that – _a bad porno company_? _Because it's not like my collection's lacking, you know. Unlike _some _people I stay on top of important issues like these."

Bobby nearly growled. "It's the _circus_ you moron," he snapped frostily, the static now nearly overpowering his voice altogether. "You want your little angel friend's Grace back _well_, then – _you've gotta' join the damn circus_."


	5. Chapter 5: ronald mcdonald eats brains

**five**.

- - -

"_Uh uh_." Sam shook his head deliberately back and forth, his arms tightly wrapped around his chest as though creating some sort of impenetrable fort. His expressive pupils gleamed with worry as the tiniest of hairs shot up along the length of his forearms. "No way."

"Is this about the clowns?"

"_No_," Sam lied quickly – too quickly.

Dean's upper lip curled as he suppressed a faint grin. "Then what it is? Because I'm pretty damn sure that the only thing that would have you shaking in your stilettos the way you are right now is Bozo and his big red nose."

"Another girl joke. Classic." Sam's eyes rolled, though he immediately stiffened his toes, completely unaware that they had been quaking heartlessly with fretful tremors.

"Seriously though, Sammy. _Clowns_?" The tip of Dean's tongue clicked against the underside of his front teeth in disappointment. "It's just _so_," he paused before continuing, "so _lame_."

"And being afraid of _flying_ isn't?" Sam's brow quirked defensively.

Dean glared, eyes narrowing. "Because clowns can fall out of the sky and cause an explosion so large it'll burn the skin clear off of your face – not to mention send your kneecap through your skull. _Yes_," he said as he nodded thoughtfully, a sneer coiling itself along the contour of his mouth. "Your fear is _totally_ more justified than mine."

"_Fine_."

"_Look_." Dean's tone was short. His shoulders were bristled as though even so much as _speaking_ of planes left him with an uncomfortable taste in his mouth. "It's a strong lead not to mention the _only_ one we've got. I say we take it. They're meeting up in California as we speak. If we drive fast enough we can get there in a good three or so days."

"_Fine_," Sam repeated, rather dully this time as his arms eased from their guarded position. Brushing his floppy brown mane from his face, he held up a finger. "But on one condition."

"Name it."

Sam smirked impishly. "If _I _have to deal with Ronald McDonald and his psychotic brain eating pals," he started.

Dean interjected grumpily, rolling his eyes as he took a seat atop the stiff mattress of the less than spacious motel room. It squeaked beneath his weight. "_Jesus Christ_, dude. Clowns don't eat brains – grow up already, won't you?"

Sam ignored him. "If I have to deal with Ronald McDonald and his psychotic brain eating pals then _you _have to _fly_ to California." Grinning broadly, he swiped his brother across the back playfully. Dean froze, wincing as though his brother's palm had been made of metal and steel. His insides turned coldly, and he swallowed hard. He could hear the roar of the engine, the wings screeching as they turned with each gust of wind. "You want _me_ to join the circus? Well then Dean - _you_ gotta' get on a plane."

* * *

**Sorry for the lack of length. Again this stupid heat is giving me a headache. Hopefully the next chapter will be longer. Dean on a plane! I can't wait for this week's episode, how about you guys? I can't stand Paris Hilton but I thought she added a nice touch to last week's episode despite her lack of acting ability. It could've been worse I guess.** **The rest was great though!**


	6. Chapter 6: drugs are bad mmkay?

**six**.

- - -

"I don't want to drink this."

"_I know, I know_. But you gotta', Cass." Dean said soothingly, his feet tapping against the airport terminal's stark linoleum floor. The sound of the large planes taking flight sent his pulse into a dizzying frenzy and he found himself gulping at the warm air surrounding him. The fullness in his lungs did nothing to satisfy the throb of fear that had overtaken him.

The dull chatter of passengers trickling by filled his ears and it took every last bit of self control not to whip out the pistol he and Sam had cleverly disguised – convincing the airport security it was a watering can. You never knew when you'd need a bullet of rock salt to hurdle through the air at unspeakable speeds. It was a possibility – even miles about the ground. He still wasn't sure how they had managed to pull it off, but he wasn't about to take any chances by rubbing their noses in their mistake.

A static buzz seemed to cover him like a cloud and he could feel the sweat seeping from his palms. A greenish tint had crept along the skin behind his ears and he knew by the stares of the other passengers that he _looked_ as ill as Castiel _felt_.

"It's making it worse," the angel protested solemnly, the contents of the large cup he had clasped in his quivering hands sloshing about.

"It's a milkshake," Sam interrupted, gently placing a hand atop the heavenly beast's knee. Castiel recoiled, his features abnormally rigid as his eyes faded into a lackluster nothingness. "It's _good_ for you."

What he wasn't saying, of course, was that it was good for _all_ of them – laced with a large amount of heavy duty sleeping aides.

"Can't you just let me take _one_?" Dean had bartered miserably as he'd crushed the oblong, white pills – shaking them into the frothy drink.

"Not a chance," Sam had insisted, shaking his head with a taut grin."You're not planning on having me doped up the next few weeks – it's only fair."

"_Mommy, what if we crash_?" A tiny girl, clutching her suitcase, questioned loudly as she walked past. The young boy beside her, most likely her brother snickered as he whacked her playfully along the back of the head.

"Our brains'll be splattered _everywhere _doofus, that's what," the boy had replied smarmily. Dean had felt the bile rise against his tongue instantaneously, eyes snapping shut. He swallowed it down.

"_Dean_ – hey, you okay?" He'd felt Sam's hand against his forehead, but that was _it_. The ground below – the walls all around. They'd all disappeared somehow, falling beneath him.

"Yeah, just _great_," he'd growled – not wanting to move, afraid of the consequences that might follow. It was hard enough to watch after _Cass_, he didn't need to be puking himself. "Just finish up Sleeping Beauty's milkshake, will you'?"

Sam _had_, and now the three of them sat – fidgeting against the hard and uncomfortable plastic of the chairs. The waiting area was crowded at best. Castiel continued to frown into the hazy drink, the straw bent at his full lips.

"I feel – _funny_," he slurred, setting the paper cup down. Dean heaved a sigh of relief. The drugs were kicking in.

It wasn't anything personal. Not that he didn't think Cass would enjoy flying, even. Flirting with the stewardesses, throwing down some beers – well maybe that wasn't _Cass'_ thing. In fact if it wasn't for the whole airplane thing, Dean figured he'd actually love the experience. Too bad the hot chicks with the tiny skirts had to be accompanied with such a huge damn deathtrap.

No, it wasn't anything personal at all. He and Sam had discussed it at length, even. Sam had wanted to keep the angel lucid – awake. Dean, however, had assured him that if they did so they'd spend the entire flight having to explain to others why this grown man was not only sobbing like a perpetual child but throwing up buckets of blood like there was nothing better to do.

No, drugs – drugs had definitely been the way to go.

"_You wanna' lay on my shoulder, Cass_?" Dean offered softly. Castiel's eyes were wide yet blazed feverishly with exhaustion. Before he could answer, his mouth parted into a thick yawn and within seconds - _he was out_.

A voice crackled overhead. "All passengers heading on the next flight to _Los Angeles, California_ may now board. Please present your tickets to the attendee at hand."

Eyes alight with a spark of some emotion Dean could not recognize, Sam bit back a mischievous grin. "Ready, Dean?"

Dean felt the world cease around him for the second time that day. _Ready?_ He closed his eyes, trying to ignore the sounds of the engines puttering away from outside the terminal.

Ready?_ No_.

He wasn't – he really, _really_ wasn't.


	7. Chapter 7: blue crayon notary

**seven**.

- - -

"My tape collection – _uhm_, I guess I leave it to Sammy. No way Cass would appreciate the classics. Not that Sam does either. But still. Write that down." Dean paused as he thumped his fingertip against the cold plastic of the airline tray beside him. The tray shook under the weight of his hand. Beside him, a heavy set boy – no more than eight or nine, sat. Clutched between his sausage like fingers was a blue crayon, the tip of which was almost worn all the way down to the nub. He was scribbling furiously against the fraying fabric of a simple napkin.

"I'm writing as fast as I can."

"Which isn't really all that fast if you think about it."

"Maybe if you weren't running your pie-hole so much."

"Look Billy," Dean snapped curtly.

"Bobby! Come on geezer. I've told you my name _twice_ now."

"Yeah, well my memory ain't so great these days."

Bobby's mouth pursed with a sneer as he pointed directly down at the napkin, most of which was covered with the waxy coating of the crayon. "And yet you've left _half_ of your stuff to some dude named Bobby. I'm _thinking_ it's a name you can remember," he remarked snidely, his pig-like nose scrunching with disdain. "You're just too dumb to actually _try_."

"_Listen you little punk_," Dean warned with a snarl.

"No _you_ listen old dude," Bobby interrupted, raising a hand into the air. "I'm not the one who's afraid of dying on a plane, okay? _I'm_ not a little girl but apparently _you _are. You made me switch seats with your lame-o brother so he wouldn't know what a pansy you are and now _he's_ getting my bag of pretzels and cup of soda while _I'm_ stuck listening to you whine. Then like the crazy person you are, you asked me to write your will. I mean who asks an eight year old to do that? A psychopath! I _don't_ need your crap, okay old man? Just back off," he finished with an voracity so intense, even Dean was taken aback.

"When in the hell did kids start talking back like that?" he muttered with a huff, arms crossing tensely against his chest. The plane rattled with a startling quake. Immediately he stiffened, eyes shutting for a brief moment as he prayed to whatever God he was left to believe in.

Bobby just rolled his large brown eyes, shaking his head as he returned to his blue colored scribblings of Dean Winchester's final testament, mumbling beneath his breath as he scrawled out the final signature and date, "when adults got as _stupid_ as you."


End file.
